Sliding usuk
by dannys77
Summary: A short, depressing story in which Alfred and Arthur like each other, and reliving the past as well as suffering in the present.


Alfred was sliding down, tumbling down, a fall in which he was never to arise from. It wasn't supposed to end this way, with anger and hate escaping from their chains. They had said that it would only take one day, a minute to change a millennia. Alas, he had agreed. After all, what choice had he truly been allowed to make? He hadn't meant to hurt the one whom had raised him, loved him, like no other ever had before. But it happened. The scars were etched, and the words were said. What was once mighty was left to cry and regain what was left of the broken heart, and the tattered soul. And so the silence ensued, the sounds of dying men fading into the background, blood turning to water, piled corpses turning to green shrubbery. That was the curse of the Revolutionary War, of his beloved freedom.

_"You know I love you more than anything in the world, right America?"_

Emerald eyes would not meet the American's own sparkling blue ones. It had been years, and they had hoped for it to be many years more. There was noise in that room full of people, but ages of deafening guilt spread a blanket over the joy. It was sickeningly sweet, and straw-blonde hair shifted slightly as a shoulder was grabbed by a man, whom had once been the beloved child and gift. Demands were screamed and forgiveness was begged, but it was unthinkable to forget. The old wounds had been reopened, and depression wound its way around consciousness. Mentality was no longer right, and bitter words of spite were spat back at Alfred, worsening the wrong. With that, England was gone, leaving nothing but a trail of shock in his wake. Tears cascaded down pale features, with a vow to never have an encounter again.

_"I know, Engwand! You tell me every day!"_

There was hope. But they were unable to see through the doubt, their fish-eyes trained solely on the past. Never again to speak, and never again to see. The darkness closed in, delivering demons of demise and despair. With two different homes, and two different faces, but with the same regrets. Passion had bloomed, and just as quickly, it had been massacred, leaving nothing but a daunting image of what could've been, what should've been. It was like a siren, one who tempted you with beauty and the promise for the better, but wailed a chilling, killing song every time you reached out a hand. Arthur was tired, weary, but rested. He had sobbed and mourned enough tears and words to last a man an infinite supply of lifetimes. There was a flashback of what used to be, when the sun still shone bright and smiles adorned two faces. Even the moon was drowned away when the black came, and smiles turned to frowns, and cuts and bruises to mortal wounds. Laughs and giggles turned to screams and insults, and then he was trapped in that nightmare. He had seen and heard enough, and it was time to leave the pain and the hurt.

It was all about what it could've been, what it should've been, what it would've been.

_"America! Here, try on this new suit that I bought you!"_

Blood on white, and tears on black. Alfred was once again shattered, but this time beyond repair. He was gone, had ended it just as soon as it had started again. Vases broke in a fit of rage, as mirrors were cracked by the sorrow. Arthur had met him again, a new and different him. But it was too much, and he had left America behind to regret. He could have fixed it, made it better, tended to the wounds. But the blood had left before he got the chance to try, as though he had been speaking to nothing more than a dead man walking. But that frustration and irritation had been real, and it still burned a hole in the heart of a man, the organ of a disowned hero. He was not what he had aimed to be, and would never have what he wished for the most. The grins, the chuckles, all was gone, and had left him suspended in the dark, killing him. And in the end, he would not allow it to beat him. He would do the job for it, as the last act of a fallen soldier.

_"Huh? England, you know I hate wearing suits."_

Both gone, dissipating into the depths. Light had not awaited, only more darkness, happiness a taunting joke made by God. Never to amend, and never to right, the burden lasts forever. If only he could go back, he could beg for things to change, for things to stay the same. But he wouldn't go back. He didn't want to linger on the good times and forget the hardships, the ones that made him. But in the broken abyss, he only wished for the differing fates. Then maybe they would still be oblivious and innocent, with the reek of death never quite tainting the love. But for now the tears will fall, as even in death, there was no escape.

And now they will keep sliding down.

_"Why don't you say we just forget about this and go home?"_

_"No."_

_"What? America - "_

_"What happened, England? You used to be so great."_


End file.
